the erosion. we respect it more
than green blankets, or slopes draped
with double crochet pines in files or
space apliqued with that spreading
tree of life. we respect
the erosion like a man
with blue lights and a gun
(or a woman) (with a gun)
it is definition, like a line drawn
or a levee raised on the loose soil

blot up those tears when they have done their work
and your eyes are clear of motes and cinders and those
lashes, thickened with brown mascara because black
was too bold for your face, lashes that washed down
onto the salt pan.

gather up those old discarded lashes
and plant them around the weeping sore
with a spiral magic wand and a dab of brown
and it begins a terraced garden,
more to be respected even than erosion.